Flour
by padfootseeker
Summary: He had expected sparks, his very foundations to crumble, throwing the two of them into the air in a wind of four, sweet chocolate chips, and excitement. Oh, he yearned for excitement more than anything else, because that was how love worked, wasn't it? A One Direction fanfiction: Larry Stylinson
1. Prologue

His first kiss had been in the bakery. That was his home back then, the kitchen in the back, far from sight, where he would bake the cookies and decorate the cakes, sweating in the heat of the ever-burning oven and breathing in unhealthy amounts of flour. She had been his first and last girlfriend, sunny, always smiling, a perfume as sweet as that of his signature chocolate chocolate chip cookies. They were young and daring, so when his father had gone for the night, he had led her into the back, given her a fresh cookie, and... That was all, really. It wasn't much more than a peck, and an oddly unsatisfying one at that.

He had expected sparks, his very foundations to crumble, throwing the two of them into the air in a wind of four, sweet chocolate chips, and excitement. Oh, he yearned for excitement more than anything else, because that was how love worked, wasn't it? Yet all that met his waiting lips was the awkward chapped ones of the girl, and disappointment that wracked his brain, that caused his nerves to tremble, building to an awful momentum, reaching for a climax he knew would never come. He remembered groaning when they broke apart, looking around and seeing the flour lying in the neat pile he had left it, ready for a new lump of dough, yet another batch of cookies. Had he really expected anything else? That the very act of his lips meeting another's would cause an avalanche of... What exactly?

She seemed to have enjoyed it, at least. She had smiled, giggled, pushed her brown hair from her shining eyes, and there the memory ended. They had broken up a week or so later, for no reason he could remember other than simply because that was how long seventh grade relationships were meant to last. They had kissed a few more times, but he remembered none of them. There had been many more exciting kisses since, with many more exciting girls.

The years had passed, and those moved by in a sea of flour, of lust, of a whole lot more than bakery kisses. He wasn't used to disappointment, and didn't particularly enjoy it. So he refused to be disappointed, it was as simple as that. He never had another girlfriend, yet as the years passed, the disappointment remained.

The girls were beautiful, all of them. The pouty lips, belly button piercings, much too skimpy clothing perhaps even for the clubs he frequented, swam before his vision. There was the blonde with long curly hair, he had called out her name at his moment of orgasmic release for weeks afterward. The redhead whose lips were such a precise shade of blood red they instilled fear with each glance. The one with stunningly gray eyes had seduced him without saying a word; she had been the first fan he slept with, yet definitely not the last.

He knew he was dealing with all of the newfound fame and fortune entirely the wrong way, and the infinite drunken nights of drunken sex and a perpetually drunken high were there to prove it. He never felt the flour fly, his heart never raced at the thought of yet another conquest. He kisses became deeper, the sex rougher, but still he remained, until slowly, ever so slowly, he began to forget that he was looking for anything at all. He forgot, until the very second or his release when he knew, his very bones felt, that something was missing, something he would likely never obtain. Slowly, then even slower, he forgot to feel even that.

The years passed, and he plodded on. Each night there was a new girl, a new kiss. His days passed in a drunken stupor, each longer than the last, and the years passed, until he forgot about the bakery, forgot his recipe for chocolate chocolate chip cookies and the delicate way he held the tube as he blossomed flowers from pink icing, until he forgot his moment of disappointment at his first kiss, his moment of hesitation as he glanced at the all too still flour on the counter beside him. The years passed, and he forgot to search for the storm of flour, for a moment of pure unadulterated exhilaration.

Until finally, in what felt like a single instant, Harry Styles forgot to feel.


	2. Chapter 1

Louis had hidden the alcohol, how, Harry had no idea. He had stolen his alcohol, and Harry's head reeled, staring deep into the dark corners of the cupboard that had never before been empty. He had been threatening to do it for days, Harry really shouldn't have been surprised that his friend had finally taken it upon himself to carry out his seemingly empty threats. God, why had he laughed them off, why had he not hidden even a flask in the dark confines of his underwear drawer? Harry groaned, muscles already aching, fingers trembling. He collapsed onto the couch, closing his eyes against the already blooming headache as he ground the heels of his hands against his sleep-deprived eyes. He hadn't slept in days, God, why hadn't he slept in days.

He could feel his brain begin to whir, his thoughts to spin. He hated thinking. He hadn't had a coherent thought in months, and wasn't about to do so now. A last resort, he reached delicately, stealthily, into his pocket, pulling out the perfectly rolled joint he kept with him, just for times like these, quietly so as not to rouse the friend who would undoubtedly abduct his last attempt at sanity.

He took a deep breath in. Out. Okay. He really was pathetic, wasn't he? Unable to go thirty seconds without being completely, totally, out of his mind intoxicated? He didn't even give himself the opportunity to be hungover anymore without downing yet another shot. The constant parties had begun to blur together in to one, infinite, sweaty night. He never gave himself the opportunity to sleep anymore, to risk his exhausted subconscious gaining control of his mind and causing, God forbid, thought. And it was working, he hadn't had a nightmare in ages.

Granted, his coping skills were probably not as great as they could have been, but he was fine. He was better than fine. He had four great friends, a family back in Cheshire, he was goddamn famous! Everywhere he went, girls clawed at his very skin, yearning for his touch, sobbing when he gave it to them willingly. He was absolutely fan-fucking-tastic, on top of the world, really.

Head beginning to clear, Harry stood, stumbling toward the kitchen he had hardly touched since he and Louis had begun renting their North London apartment. No oven should ever sparkle like that, he thought, running his fingers over the flawless surface, opening the fridge only to be greeted with leftover Chinese take out, a carton of orange juice that had already developed a distinct smell, and two eggs, of which it was still unclear whether they were still in decent condition. Flour. He suddenly needed flour, needed it's dust under his fingernails, coating his throat and forcing out coughs. He missed its ever-present scent in his nose, consuming him until it was all he could focus on, his own less detrimental drug.

He had been deprived of it for far too long.

Harry smiled, seeing the small bag of the white dust, remembering their moving day. He and Louis had arrived first, throwing their first boxes onto the floor with a flourish, stumbling around, drunk on the excitement of their first apartment. Louis had been singing at the top of his lungs, spinning in circles around the empty rooms, while Harry wandered aimlessly. He had still been a bit apprehensive about the idea of living completely on his own, and, head spinning, sat himself down on the kitchen counter as the majority of their collective furniture wouldn't arrive for a few more days. And then he saw it. It wasn't a grand gesture or anything, not even in the scheme of their friendship, but the simple sight of the small brown bag had brought a smile to the boy's face. "Love always, Louis", he had written sloppily in black Sharpie, scrawling his name alongside the brand and crinkling the material sloppily in the process. He was going to be fine, he remembered thinking, he and Louis were going to be fine, simply because they always were, and because they would never be alone. His arms arrived next, and then his quick breath on the back of Harry's neck, still giggling uncontrollably. Yes, they were going to be just fine.

And they had been, for a while. But he hadn't used the kitchen at all, he had been far too caught up in the nightly parties and drunken mumblings, so it was only now, months later, that he remembered the brown paper bag filled with the dust of home. He, they, had been fine, and it was only when the nightmares started that everything truly went downhill. Louis wasn't always there, and the apartment was too cold and too empty and he was too alone, and they had always been best friends, but for the first time Harry found Louis impossible to talk to and everything had begun crashing down until he was but a fiber holding himself together, and he could feel himself stretching cracking fissuring breaking.

Harry shook his head. No. No thinking, not tonight. Not with no alcohol within sight. He reached his hands into the bag of flour, lifting the grains to his face, breathing in the smell he had so terribly missed. He touched his tongue to the substance feeling it, breathing it, knowing it. His fingers swirled, tickled by the fine powder, and maybe it was just his artificial high, a high he knew would never last long enough, but his senses were alive, and eyes closed, he could feel the heat of an oven in the back shadows of a bakery, the tinkling ring of a customer's entrance, his own breathing bringing him back to days with fingers twirling the same dust, calloused hands from hours of mixing, eyes tired from early mornings and late nights. It may very well have been the high, but for the smallest fraction of a moment he was back, and for the smallest fraction of a moment he was... Not quite happy, but content.

"Jesus Christ, Harry, I thought I had gotten all of it!" Louis plucked the remainder of the joint from Harry's pursed lips, pausing to take a quick drag before he tossed it into the caverns of the sink, drowning any of Harry's misconceptions that his moment of serenity would endure.

He laughed sadly, blowing smoke into his friend's eyes and causing him to blink furiously, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he stepped backward. "Had to call in the reserves, mate."

The boy smiled, reaching behind Harry's back to the open bag of flour and flicking a bit in his friend's face.

"Oi! That's my present you're chucking around!" He spluttered, knowing before the words had bubbled from his lips that his attempt was fruitless. Louis was in one of his moods, and Harry was suddenly quite sure he knew what was soon to follow, and it would involve a whole lot of giggling.

Louis's grin widened, overtaking the perpetually tanned cheeks, eyes twinkling with a mysterious smirk that his mouth hardly did justice. The giggling had already begun, and this time it was a full handful of the fine dust that had Harry stumbling backward, arms flailing as his long fingers failed to find a grip on the smooth countertop.

"Oh that is it." Louis's grin spread impossibly larger at Harry's words as the younger boy released the entire contents of the brown paper bag onto his over-conditioned locks.

"Shit!" Louis cried, the air around them erupting in a sea of white. It was in their eyes, in their mouths, covering them, and Harry laughed at his friend's indignation, delighting in the fact that Louis was pale for the first time in his life and hating every minute of it. Louis stumbled, lunging at Harry and pulling him to the ground until Harry was sure he had never seen so much flour. It lay across the floor, covering every far too shiny surface and tugging the boys into the white wonderland of their own kitchen.

Yet the dust settled, as Harry knew it must at some point, leaving them lying, limbs intertwined, in the mess of their own making. This was where he wanted to stay, in the arms of his best friend, lying across the suddenly stiff torso of the older boy in a sea of flour, not minding in the least when his hair fell into his eyes and failing to muster up the energy to push it aside. He glanced up at the face he knew so well, eyes alight with contentment for the first time in ages, suddenly not angry that his friend had abducted his sole method of forgetting, not considering the nightmares he was sure would follow that night, just lying in blissful silence.

Louis's eyes were not nearly so peaceful. His brow furrowed, eyes narrowing from the wide crinkle of his previous laugh as he stared intently down at the boy folded upon him, worry engulfing the joking nature of just a few moments before. Harry was not right, and he hadn't been right for months. "You told me you would try," he muttered, his gaze intensifying on the deep green of his friend's eyes.

Harry was sorry, really he was, who couldn't be, seeing those wide blue eyes, so full of fear and a disappointment he knew all too well. Harry was fragile, they both knew it. His eyes betrayed far too much, his nerves constantly shook with either alcohol's artificial endorphins, desire, or, in a rare moment, absolute terror. It was times like these that caused his head to spin, his teeth to chatter, his feet to run far, far from any company, and his mouth to sob for his friend. "I know," he whispered, knowing his joy of only a moment ago was now gone, unlikely to return, and he reached over the boy lying below him to push himself up, to stand, walk away, to escape. "I know." He had told Louis he would try. And he had. He had spent the day wandering the streets, eating hot dog after hot dog from various vendors, avoiding eye contact and any form of speech.

"Louis can do better," the girl had told him, glaring into his eyes. He had started, train of thought escaping in a huff of shivering breath into the cold hard air. "He could have me." If Louis had been there, they would have laughed it off, and really, he couldn't count the number of times girls had told him very similar things, accused him of much worse, but that day, with that girl glaring at him in that defiant way, he was unable to laugh, or even correct her. He should have been used to it, really he should have, but he wasn't and he was alone, and even with a stomach full of hot dogs, he had felt empty, with a hunger for something he could never eat. So he had done the only thing he knew how to do. He had escaped, run home, opened his precious cupboard, and...

He had tried. Really, he had, but he wasn't prepared and the girl's comment was harsh and wrong, so very wrong, and he hadn't considered what upset him the most about the whole situation, hadn't wanted to. The comment had been, should have been, irrelevant. They weren't together, of course, they were friends, best friends, brothers.

Looking back, years later, Harry would realize that it was in that moment it had all fallen apart, though he would never be quite sure of how or why. Was it the look in her eye? The subject itself? Or simply the mention of his best friend's name?

Whatever way, the deed was done, and try as he might, Harry needed to be intoxicated, and Louis had found him, and there they were, on top of one another on the kitchen floor, Louis with that look in his eye, and Harry with tears. He didn't say much more, just pushed himself up from the safe embrace, giving a inaudible sigh, trying in vain to blink away the moisture, not wanting to explain or deny.

"Harry," Louis whispered, raising a warm finger to his friend's face and wiping away a lone tear, gentle and forgiving. Softly, he reached under the burning chin and holding Harry between two hands, searching his eyes for anything, everything, and knowing that he need not look any further, need not ask a single question. "Oh Harry." Louis's fingers caressed the curls, twirling them gently, his gaze never wavering from those abnormally large green eyes, so full of a deep sadness, a need, that it would have been impossible to look away even if he had wanted to do so. His fingertips travelled along Harry's jaw, skin suddenly flaming, just holding, exploring as he had done so many times before for so many different reasons.

Harry wanted to look away. He wanted to run, he wanted to leave, and each muscle screamed with desire to not be there, to never let anyone explore his mind like this again, to close his eyes and shut it all away. He wanted to, he tried, he tried so hard, but his lids refused to close, and Louis's touch held him in place, refused to give him the freedom he sobbed for. The green eyes flickered, alive with sympathy, each moment lasting years, never releasing him, promising to hold him captive forever.

It occurred to Harry that Louis had no idea what had happened, had no idea that really, nothing out of the ordinary had caused his collapse, and it was just this that had broke him. He never asked, and he never felt the need to do so.

Harry's skin screamed at Louis's touch, he felt the flesh burning away, leaving only the charred remains of what had once been considered desirable. He felt the flour beneath his fingers, drying his skin, cracking it, ripping it. His head pounded, the weeks of hangover finally catching up, and though he needed to be curled up in a bed away from any human contact, he was lying on top of his best friend, nothing but one hand supporting him with every muscle crying, and it was exactly where he wanted to be.

Slowly, so slowly, Harry's head lowered, and as Louis's head raised to meet his, eyes fluttering blissfully closed, Harry's only thought was, for the first time, more. More contact, more close, more Louis. Their lips met, finally, painstakingly slow, skin against skin, fire against fire, and Harry felt his thoughts run, his mind go completely black.

Louis's hand slipped, reaching deep into Harry's curls, pulling, pushing him closer, his mouth opening to Harry's already waiting tongue, and Harry gasped, a slight noise born deep in his throat. Their tongues danced quietly, softly, and he felt himself tell Louis it all, pouring it directly into him, his disappointment, the emptiness, the yearning for something, anything to fill him up, and he felt Louis understand, felt him comfort and explain that it didn't matter, that nothing mattered anymore, that they were falling, falling backwards onto the floor once again, rolling in a frenzy of more, always more, scattering the neat piles of flour that had collected around them, under them, on them.

They had kissed many times before, and really, this should have been nothing out of the ordinary. Louis was affectionate, and, at least around Harry, he never really felt the need to restrain himself. After an especially riling concert or simply a perfect day together, he would suddenly catch Harry's face between his hands, mussing his hair, and, one of his smiles overpowering his face, would smack their lips together, telling Harry just how much he loved him without saying a word. This, too, alone would have been completely normal, but the way that Louis groaned, the way Harry bit his bottom lip, forbidding him from moving any fraction of a centimeter away for any fraction of a moment was far from anything they had done before, surpassing every boundary they had tested by miles.

So Harry cried, feeling his lips move in synchronized heat against his friend's, needing him, wanting him, caught, at last, in a hurried storm of flour.


End file.
